


The Way to a Man's Heart

by SunriseinSpace



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Comfort foods, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunriseinSpace/pseuds/SunriseinSpace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way to a Man's Heart

  
(1. mcdonalds just because)  
  
It's late in the evening, past ten and he's been up since before five that morning, when he blinks and a white paper bag appears on the corner of his desk, wafting a tempting odor of fried potatoes and stale grease at him. He blinks again and the muddled red-and-yellow logos and writing on the bag resolve themselves into actual letters and words. Another blink and he realizes it's a McDonalds bag and his stomach suddenly makes itself known with a truly embarrassing growl.  
  
A fond chuckle has him turning his head and staring with wide eyes up into Eames' amused eyes.  
  
"There's a Big Mac, large fry, apple pie, and vanilla milkshake in there," the Forger tells him, nodding at the bag as if Arthur could possibly have forgotten its existence. When Arthur just continues to stare up at Eames in wonder, Eames reaches out to pull the bag closer to him. Arthur misinterprets this and snatches at the bag, cradling it to his chest and sniffing like a jonesing addict at the distinctive fast-food aroma. Eames laughs and settles on the edge of the desk, grinning. "Well, go on, love. Feed the beast," he says indulgently, practically radiating amusement as he watches Arthur tear into the bag.  
  
"Where the hell did you find a real, honest-to-God, actual-beef-serving McDonalds' burger in _India_?" he asks around a mouthful of meat, lettuce, and bun. He crams a fry into his mouth and takes a long pull at the milkshake, moaning in ecstasy at the familiar flavor. If he closes his eyes, he could swear he's back in Kentucky, snatching a quick meal between classes at E-town Community College or indulging in fast food after a drill weekend at Fort Knox.  
  
"Ah, ah, ah. None of that, darling," Eames admonishes, waving a finger at Arthur as he tries to be reproachful and utterly fails, his smile peeking uncontrollably through the facade. "Allow a man his secrets. Besides, it's your favorite, right?"  
  
"Well, yes, but I--" Arthur starts, meaning to simply thank Eames for the unexpected meal. But he nibbles into the corner of the apple pie as he tries to gather his thoughts and promptly forgets what he wants to say, in favor of groaning in an excess of appreciation again. "God, Eames, I think I love you," he sighs, shoving the last of his burger into his mouth so he can scarf down the fries and get to the pie for real.  
  
With his eyes closed in bliss, he misses the soft, pleased look in Eames' eyes. He opens his eyes again as Eames clears his throat and pulls himself to his feet, smiling in a subdued, intimate way as he watches Arthur lick the salt from his French fries off his fingers.  
  
"Well, if that's all it takes, remind me to hold off on a Taco Bell run until after our next fight," Eames quips, leaning down to plant a firm, fond kiss to the middle of Arthur's forehead before turning to leave. Arthur flushes and throws a wadded napkin at Eames' retreating back.  
  
"That's cheating and exploitation!" Arthur hollers after him, a silly grin crossing his face as he nibbles on his apple pie again - really, it's the best food in the world, especially when following a value meal and accompanied by a vanilla 'shake.  
  
"All's fair in love and war, darling!" Eames volleys back, pausing briefly in the doorway to leer at Arthur. "You can thank me later," he says with a wink, then slips out with barely a whisper of sound.  
  
Arthur just smiles to himself and continues munching happily on his pie.  
  
+  
  
(2. taco bell as a peace offering)  
  
The bag's sitting on his side of the bed when he shoulders open the door.  He stops for a second and stares at it, the strap for his laptop case digging into his shoulder and card-key dangling limply from his fingers.  Frowning, he shrugs off his bag and sets it by the tiny table in the corner, carefully placing the key on the tabletop as he considers the bag.  
  
It doesn't radiate any particular aroma, mostly just warm, damp paper and a slight scent of spiced meat, but he knows exactly what's in the bag - two Grilled Stuft Steak burritos, cheesy potatoes, and cinnamon twists, with a Mountain Dew waiting for him on the nightstand - though he's not quite sure (he never is) where and/or how Eames managed to deduce this.  And despite the no-punches-pulled, knock-down, drag-out fight they had at the warehouse earlier (with Cobb looking shocked and Ariadne looking more than a little scared in the background), he intuitively understands that nothing untoward has been done to the food.  
  
He pulls off his shoes, tucks them next to the nightstand, hangs his suit jacket in the closet, unbuttons and folds his waistcoat, and removes his tie and cufflinks.  He contemplates untucking his shirt, but decides against it, opting to roll up his sleeves and unbutton his collar instead.  Then, grinning with anticipation, he climbs into the middle of the bed and folds his legs Indian-style, pulling the Taco Bell bag off his pillow and into his lap.  
  
He groans happily as he takes the first bite of the burrito, steak and beans and cheese all culminating in an impromptu party in his mouth.  He feels like a little kid, too excited just to have a Taco Bell meal to make any attempt to savor it.  He demolishes both burritos with only a minimum of chewing, licking the bright orange grease off his fingers when one burrito falls apart in his hands.  Digging back into the bag, he pops a cinnamon twist into his mouth and roots around until he finds the plastic-wrapped spork and lidded container of potatoes.  These he savors slightly more than the burritos, his initial Taco Bell adrenaline spike easing off just enough.  Still, though, he finishes the potatoes only slightly slower than if he'd inhaled them, scraping contentedly at the foam container until he's gotten all of the sour cream and cheese left inside.  
  
Sighing happily, he settles back on the pillows and pulls out the packet of cinnamon twists.  These he can eat slowly, though it's mostly because he's no longer ravenous.  He takes a moment to lick some excess sugar off his fingers and take a drink of his soda and when he looks up again, Eames is standing by the doorway, hands in his pockets and eyes soft and slightly wary as he leans against the wall.  
  
"Mmm, apology accepted, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, crunching down on a twist and licking the sugar off his lips.  When Eames' mouth twitches up in a smile, Arthur grins back, open and forgiving, and pats the space next to him in invitation.  
  
+  
  
(3. kool-aid to make him smile)  
  
He finds the first one at the warehouse, tucked into the front of the file on their mark's pre-college years.  He frowns at it for a second, wondering why in the world a packet of cherry-flavored Kool-Aid is in his file.  He picks it up and examines it from all angles, looking for a note or something, some clue as to its purpose (aside from the obvious).  There's nothing, front or back.  He studies it for a few minutes more, then shrugs, sets down the folder and heads back to the little kitchenette.  There's at least five pounds of sugar in the back, due to the team's coffee addiction, and he's pretty sure someone left a random pitcher in one of the cabinets.  
  
Cherry always was his favorite Kool-Aid flavor, anyway.  
  
He finds the second one one rainy morning about a week later, slipped into the pocket of his trenchcoat.  He stands there in the rain, blinking stupidly at the little waxed-paper packet, until his hair drips down into his eyes and he's soaked through.  Huffing a little sigh of frustration, he pivots and heads back inside to change clothes, a suspicion as his mysterious Kool-Aid giver drifting at the back of his mind.  
  
After all, how many people could know his grandmother only ever made this flavor for him and that Raspberry Kool-Aid makes him think of her?  
  
He wakes from a dream trial-run with the third one waiting for him in the pocket of his shirt.  He pulls it out and stares at the yellow Soarin' Strawberry-Lemonade packet, then glances around at his team mates, all of whom are more focused on discussing the details of the job and the dream than seeing if Arthur's found the unexpected gift.  He realizes he's smiling rather goofily, frowns instead, and tucks the packet back into his pocket, refocusing on the job at hand.  
  
When he finds a Lemon-Lime packet folded in with the money in his wallet, the penny drops and he decides he was stupid not to figure it out before now.  
  
"Have you been talking to my subconscious?" he asks Eames that night.  When Eames glances back a question, Arthur fans out the packets (including the empty cherry one) and shoves them under Eames' nose.  The Forger grins and Arthur can feel his mouth curving to match.  
  
"You could just say thank you, darling," Eames admonishes.  Arthur tries to arrange his expression into a glare, fails, and pulls Eames down into a kiss.  
  
Later, after they're sticky and sated, sprawled across the bed trying to catch their breath, Arthur gets up for something to drink and brings back a glass of horrendously pink liquid.  
  
"Wanna try a sip?" he offers Eames.  Eames studies the glass with a look of faint distaste, but genially accepts.  
  
" _God_ , what is this, sugar water and food coloring?" he exclaims, grimacing.  "Eugh, how much sugar is in there?"  
  
Arthur grins and downs the glass.  
  
+  
  
(4. tomato soup = cold medicine)  
  
He sneezes and glares, grimacing as he swallows and feels the sandpaper burn of it.  
  
"I blame you, you know," he announces, trying for conversationally reproachful and mostly just getting hoarse.  
  
"Now, Arthur, you and I both know that old story about playing in the rain making you sick is just an old wives' tale," Eames replies, wandering back into the living room of their flat holding a tray.  
  
Arthur's bundled up under an afghan on the couch, shivering and miserable as his sinuses burn with a sneeze that'll probably never come.  Eames nudges at him with his knee, waiting until Arthur petulantly makes room for him to sit down next to him.  He sets his tray down on the coffee table and turns to put his hand to Arthur's forehead.  Arthur tries not to lean into the comforting coolness of the touch.  He's pretty sure he fails.  
  
"Here, darling.  You need to eat something - might make you sleep a little better."  
  
Arthur takes a breath to tell Eames off for mother-henning him but a cough catches him unaware, stealing his breath and wracking him until he's curled over with his head resting on Eames' shoulder, teeth gritted and hands knotted into fists.  After a moment to compose himself, he feels a large, warm mug being pressed into his hands and he automatically wraps his fingers around it.  He takes the first sip without opening his eyes and when the soup hits his tongue, he knows his expression is open and full of wonder as he looks up at Eames.  
  
"You made me tomato soup?" he asks stupidly, glancing down at the mug to ensure his tongue wasn't telling him lies.  Eames shifts uncomfortably and temporizes.  
  
"It's all that was on the shelf.  But I made it with milk instead of water and--"  Arthur grins and Eames cuts himself off abruptly.  
  
"Eames, it's perfect," he says and takes another sip.  It slides warm and comforting down his sore throat and it's just like when he was little and his mom'd make it for him when he was sick.  All that's missing are Goldfish crackers or--  
  
"I also made a grilled cheese," Eames offers, holding out the sandwich on a saucer.  Arthur smiles again and shifts to lay his head back on Eames' shoulder, not feeling quite so miserable anymore.  
  
"I'd kiss you if I didn't think you'd get sick, too," he says, cradling his mug under his chin so the steam wafts up across his face.  
  
Eames presses a kiss to the top of his head and wraps an arm over Arthur's shoulders.  "That's okay - I get the gist."  
  
+  
  
(5. jell-o jigglers to make a bad day better)  
  
Five years don't make as much of a difference as they should, he thinks, sagging tiredly against the apartment door.  He digs out his keys and lets himself in, raking cold fingers through his hair, despite the leftover hair product.  
  
Eames isn't immediately visible as he toes out of his shoes and hangs his coat on a peg by the door, but the sound of the fridge door opening then closing tells Arthur where he is.  
  
"Hello, darling.  How's Cobb?" Eames asks as Arthur rounds the corner into the kitchen.  He glances over his shoulder at Arthur but doesn't turn away from whatever he's doing at the counter.  
  
"As well as can be expected, on a day like today."  Cobb’s guilt has gotten better in the years since the Fischer inception, but something like that never really goes away.  "We took James and Phillipa to a movie, one of those new Disney things.  I think that helped, spending time with the kids."  He smiles a little.  "I think the kids were just happy to play hooky and go see a movie."  
  
"They're rather young for it to be quite as hard on them, I think," Eames says.  There's a clatter and an odd sort of plop and Eames turns around with a grin, holding out a plate for Arthur to take.  
  
There're several primary colored shapes on the plate, swaying and sliding with the movement of the plate, and it takes Arthur's tired mind a minute to catch up.  He looks up from the plate to meet the soft smile on Eames' face.  
  
"No one's made me Jell-O Jigglers since I was five."  He can't help that he sounds slightly awed - when he was little, jigglers were the greatest thing ever, but his mom only made them occasionally, keeping them special.  It's an unexpectedly pleasant surprise to have them handed to him after such an emotional day.  He pops a yellow star in his mouth, squishes it through his teeth, and swallows.  The grin that takes over his face cannot be helped.  
  
Eames shrugs, looking pleased with himself.  "I see nothing wrong with indulging in a little nostalgia now and then."  
  
Arthur picks through the shapes on the plate, grinning when he finds a red square, which he pops in his mouth, again squishing the Jell-O through his teeth before swallowing (can't eat Jell-O without squishing it through your teeth, after all).  He's still smiling when he sets the plate down on the counter, the memories of Cobb's quiet grief and lingering guilt feeling a little more distant as he wraps his arms around Eames' waist.  
  
"Maybe I don't wanna think about the past," he says, burying his face in Eames' shoulder.  Five years have made some difference but not much and missing Mal is still a deep ache in his chest.  Eames' arm comes up around him, holding him close even as Eames leans to stick the plate of jigglers back into the fridge.  
  
"I think that can be arranged," Eames replies softly, turning to kiss the red-flavor of the Jell-O out of Arthur's mouth before leading him back to the bedroom.  
  
+  
  
(+1. nutella and banana crepes to say 'i love you')  
  
"What's all this then?" Eames asks, frowning muzzily at the plate Arthur sets on the table.  He's more asleep than awake, standing shirtless and bleary-eyed in the kitchen doorway, and Arthur's surprised at how adorable he finds him in this state.  
  
"Breakfast," he answer succinctly, putting a glass of frothy chocolate milk next to the plate.  Eames blinks once, twice, eyelids not quite in sync, as he parses this.  
  
"Arthur, how--?" he starts, confusion in his voice and Arthur grins indulgently as he walks over to kiss him good morning.  
  
"It's your favorite, right?" he says, as if it's that simple.  Eames nods absentmindedly and reaches up to knuckle one eyes, obviously still not firing on all cylinders.  
  
"Yes, but--"  
  
"I finally had the time to get Ariadne to teach me how to make crepes.  She's been promising since the Fischer job and I actually had a chance to take her up on the offer, for once."  He moves back to lounge against the counter, hiding his smile behind his coffee cup.  
  
Eames is silent for a long moment, just staring at the plate of powdered-sugar dusted crepes.  "Nutella and bananas?" he asks finally, quiet and small.  Arthur nods and a hesitant smile breaks out across Eames' face, an expression wholly unlike any Arthur's seen before.  
  
He sets down his cup of coffee and steps back toward Eames, encroaching far enough into his personal space to put his hands on Eames' hips, thumbs resting on the warm skin above his pajama pants.  Eames loops his arms around Arthur's back, his eyes trained away from Arthur's face.  He nibbles on his lower lip in a moment of shy thoughtfulness and Arthur stands patiently, waiting for Eames to figure it out.  Finally, the Forger grins, stronger and more sure of himself than before.  
  
"I love you, too, darling," he says and Arthur tucks his smile against the warm skin of Eames' neck.


End file.
